


Forgotten

by thecookiemomma



Category: NCIS
Genre: Episode: s09e02 Restless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecookiemomma/pseuds/thecookiemomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic will probably be markedly different than most of my other work. “Restless” hit some … sore spots for me, and I wasn't even going to think about the episode much at all when I realized that writing could and would be cathartic.  So, here goes.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will probably be markedly different than most of my other work. “Restless” hit some … sore spots for me, and I wasn't even going to think about the episode much at all when I realized that writing could and would be cathartic. So, here goes.

 

The memories he can be sure of aren't pretty. They're small snippets of things, like handing his father a glass of Macallan Scotch after pouring it so slowly, being extremely careful not to spill a drop or stop before the level is at exactly 'two fingers'. There are pictures in his mind... memories of looking through stacks of pictures his mother took of him as a baby, as a toddler. He remembers seeing himself in that sailor suit, in that stupid hat... He remembers fingering the picture, holding it to his heart like a stuffed animal because it _was_ the memory. 

 

He remembers the coruscation of light as it hit the chandeliers in the dining room. He must've been laying down on the floor, because he remembers the rainbows playing on the ceiling as he heard Juanita sing her Spanish love songs while she cooked. He remembers making wild stories about the different arcs of rainbows, and how they were magic roads, and how they'd only be available at certain times: like when the sun hit the fixture just so, or when the lights were on. 

 

As he gets older, he remembers less, not more, and it scares him. He wants to remember all the important things, so he scribbles nonsensical things into his Blackberry, making notes of everything that he wants to bother McGeek about, for instance. He snaps surreptitious pictures on his phone. The last one he took was of Gibbs scowling at him, hand raised for a headslap. He's rather proud of that one. It will ensure he will never forget his boss' way of gently correcting him. He got a second slap for it, but it was damn well worth it. 

 

Tim and Ziva probably assume his hard drive is full of porn, but it's not. There are a few good ones he's grabbed, mostly fairly tame pictures of models, but his picture folders are full of candid shots of things and people around him. He's copied a few of his random 'face shots' from his crime scene photos – things that aren't evidentiary in nature, like Ziva sticking her tongue out at McGee when she thought no one was looking, Palmer twisting his hat backwards to avoid bumping the bill into Ducky's fedora, or Gibbs crouching down, all softness and care for a small boy who couldn't find his Marine father. 

 

Abby seems to understand. At first, she bugged him about the pictures, but now, she just keeps working, offering a quick and bright “Hi, Tony,” every time she hears the snap of the shutter of his phone. Since she often has the music blaring, he catches her off guard a lot. 

 

He has a mind for numbers and details. For names and connections. However, he keeps lists of them hidden where no one will ever see. He's afraid of losing them into the ether, forgetting them forever, not being able to call on them at need. 

 

When he finally caught up with John Smith recently – seriously, how plain of a name is _that_ – he began to realize the other coping mechanism he uses on a regular basis: he just makes shit up. When he goes to find a woman to spend the night with and strikes out, he lays in bed, imagining how it might have gone if she hadn't been committed to that other guy, if she hadn't been interested in the – female – bartender, if he hadn't spilled his drink on her new, expensive purse. Those stories become real in his mind – as real as the rainbow pathways on the dining room ceiling of his childhood home. Those are the stories he tells the team, the ones that cement his role as the team's clown, the flirty frat boy who will never grow up. Like Kate said, he's the “X-rated Peter Pan.” His greatest fear isn't breathing in more white powder or getting shot by a perp and never getting to say goodbye. 

 

His greatest fear is being forgotten. 


End file.
